


My most dear Eggsy

by ColinFilth



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Comeplay, Epistolary, F/M, Fantasizing, Fluff, Love Letters, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, polycule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-25 22:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12045834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColinFilth/pseuds/ColinFilth
Summary: In London while Eggsy is away in Sweden, Harry writes him a love letter. Or a lust letter—a letter, at any rate.Five pages of it, front and back.





	My most dear Eggsy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatgirlwho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwho/gifts).



> This is for Kim, with whom I could talk forever. Thank you for being born—that was nice. <3
> 
> This is technically part of a verse, I think.
> 
> **Spoilers for _The Golden Circle_** , proceed at your own discretion. I haven't seen the film, this is spoilers from the filming, trailers, and That One Scene.

My most dear Eggsy,

I believe everything is going well in Stockholm, if your messages as well as your wife’s are to be believed—not to mention the various articles that have been littering the Internet. I check the weather daily, and it seems to be pissing rain while the sky remains heavy and threatening here in London. Please don't catch a cold, dear Eggsy—I’ve been missing you quite a lot and intend to make up for our time apart as soon as you return.

There’s a glaring emptiness in my house, particularly in my bed without the spill of your warm limbs next to mine; an even more inconvenient one in my embrace. I miss you. I miss your body and your voice, Eggsy, the clinking of teasmade in the morning and your cologne on my pillows. You left a pair of shorts—on purpose I think or like to think—under the pillow that smells less and less like you every day.

Please do not imagine me as a picturesque romantic facing the sea as some grotesquely obvious metaphor for the wildness of his feelings, with teardrops or seafoam alike on his cheeks. No, Eggsy, not quite—Hamish visited and we enjoyed a few fingers of scotch in the parlour and then a few fingers in bed. In this bed, in the sheets where you and I fucked not a week ago. You know Hamish—he noticed the scent of you soaked in the sheets immediately and mocked me mercilessly, even as he cursed into those pillows he seemed to believe I sobbed myself to sleep on every night since you left. He said the duvet smelled of Tilde, though—I might have called him a “bloodhound bitch made to be claimed” as I fucked his arse, because I believe your wife's awful dirty talk is contagious. On her it is lovely and filthy in all the ways it isn't on me though. I do hope you two are having some fun of your own, though I do wish I were having fun with you both. I regret our Princess cannot return as soon as you, but I look forward to getting my hands on you again, to mix my sweat with yours and your breath with mine.

I will be here to fetch you from the airport, of course; Samir has happily volunteered to work the overtime. I know you enjoy his professionalism and his company both, but sadly I plan on putting up every screen between us until no one can see me stuff a hand down your trousers. I know lovely Tilde enjoys fucking you dry as much as I do, but I hope she will leave something in you, in that marrow beneath the marble, something for me. I hope to make you come in your shorts, just one hand to coax your pretty prick into hardness then into release. I want to bend down, then, to clean you up with my mouth; taste your come off your sensitive, plump cock.

On that day I will take you home to the Mews. I will feed you either tea or dick, depending on what you ask for. Be assured, dear Eggsy, that I’ll happily fix you beans and wait for you to be sated; I will sit across from you at the breakfast table with my cock hard for you and wait.

But you are nothing if not full of surprises. I remember one lovely dinner in Belgravia where I had that dreadful chicken and a wonderful stroking under those overly pretentious tablecloths. You toed off a shoe and shaped your toes to my cock; would you do the same? Would you pay me back for wanking you in the backseat of a taxi again by pressing your delicate, delicious little toes to my dick?

Or perhaps you would make me wait, smoke a cigarette and urge me to do the dishes. Perhaps if you tried I wouldn't let you, Eggsy, as dear as you are to me. It will have been over a week by then: if I survive so far I will fucking feast, my pet. I am a starved man, deprived and depraved, so much that I will gladly be fed your cock any place you see fit to put it.

I think before all things I would like to kiss you. You have come back to me sometimes with the barest hint of your wife's lipstick under your ear. I like to picture her whispering to you, filthy or lovely things or both, before you wrench yourself away from her. I adore the sight—as well as the thought—of you this way, so well-loved. Hamish leaves scratches on your hips and thighs, and those too I love to find half-healed and pink. As for the others, well, more data will have to be gathered, won’t it.

You have told me I leave bruises, sent me pictures from Kyoto and Karlstad and Kentucky days after the fact—our facts—to show me those splotches of red and blue and purple; but so do you, dear Eggsy. Once—once, and gin is pushing my hand across the page—I fussed with the bruise of a bite you had left on my collarbone to keep it stark and visible while you were gone on a mission. Please return quick and make some more of these lovely flowers bloom on my skin; I will give you a whole bouquet in kind.

Fiercely I long to make the pinkness of your mouth bloom blood-red. Your kisses turn me into something primal, elemental in a way that my very insides turn to fire and water, my bones crumbling into sand, my being swept into air. You are a storm, my dear Eggsy; you are disastrous. I miss you so. I am a maudlin besotted old man on his third glass of gin. Sometimes I find myself wondering if you enjoy the taste of it, or simply to chase it on my tongue with yours. I wonder if it's one of those many things you have borrowed from me—just as I have borrowed your smoking and your fondness for Mexican takeaway—and the idea always elicits a shiver, a pleased burst of this vanity I am too old to be ashamed of. You told me once, and you were right—few things will ever be as interesting as you are. My soul aches for you in all the ways my body does.

And it does so in many ways. It longs for you, dear Eggsy.

Perhaps the morning of your glorious return I will finger myself after a thorough shower to be able to sit on your cock as soon as I get you back to the Mews. Gin is full of awful, horrible ideas, my Eggsy. It slides down my throat as easily as your cock could; and all I want in place of a glance of vermouth is your unrelenting gaze as I take you in. Your eyes are pure absinthe, warm as the flame and sweet as the sugar it melts. You make me melt, dear Eggsy. You make me feel more drunk than a full bottle of Pernod ever could.

Hamish, drunk and sucking on his pipe as you know him very well, raised his glass of scotch and pointed out it looked like your hair. I want fistfuls of it to keep your precious face close to mine; to pull back and veer towards your neck. Your neck is a wonder, the masculine line of your throat marked by that mole in the middle. When I lay my mouth there, my dear Eggsy, I feel I am pressing my lips to your wife's, to the lips of anyone who has the privilege to adore you. Does it make me a very sick old man that my prick gets all the much harder at the thought?

I hope you will bring with you some of Tilde's lovely scent, hidden in the crook of your neck or faint at your wrists and on the inside of your thighs. Your hair will surely smell of smoke and product, as it always does. By the day's end though, I hope to have you reeking of sweat and spunk, the treasures of your body ransacked for physical pleasures. You sent me quite a lovely picture the other day, your cock pink and hard and slick—lovely on its own but adorned with a vivid ring of red lipstick. All I wanted was a taste of you, to lay my mouth where Tilde had; and I intend to chase the ghosts of her kisses for my own to join them.

I think I would like for you to fuck me first. I would take your cock anywhere, including in the arse and in the kitchen, bent over the counter for you to bruise my hips while yours slam into me. You have told me how much you miss my arse—I rather think it is time to put those words in action. Hell, dear Eggsy, I will agree to be slammed front-first into the door as soon as we cross the threshold if you think it an attractive idea. I will take the bite of your zipper’s teeth into my skin and the coldness of your belt buckle if it means I get the hard, hot length of your cock in my arse. I will beg for it if you ask—probably even if you don't. I long for the stiff goodness of it as you push inside me, the way you fit yourself in so well. There is space for you in all the most intimate parts of me, which I must admit quite sentimentally include my heart as well as my head, out of which I couldn't chase you even if I wanted to.

I do miss the thrill of milking your orgasm from you, of your gorgeous cock pulsing in my arse or my throat; of your fingers and your mouth planting those purplish blooms across my body. There is a moment, dear Eggsy, where you hold me tight and close, where all the magnificent strength in your body surges, where your orgasm slices through the bonds holding your control and composure for just a few seconds. Your teeth bite, your fingers bruise, your prick pulses. I love that moment, my Eggsy, that glorious moment when you come.

And I intend to make you come many times. I will clean up your cock in its stiff and sensitive state and keep your mess inside me as a gentleman does. Perhaps I will have you lick it out of me; perhaps should you coax it out with your fingers while you have me sloppy and open. I promise to suck them spotless and to let you find any remnants on my tongue afterwards.

Your body is so sweetly oversensitive after sex, every hair on end and goosebumps like erotica in braille has been penned on your skin. I know if I thrust between your thighs or your feet—even if I just fuck your clever fist—you will moan and groan, your mouth running like shivers. Dear Eggsy, your mouth runs as well as you do, and leaves me breathless. Will you let me fit my front to the sticky, sweaty wonderland of your back to thrust between your slick thighs? Will you allow me to suck marks on your shoulders, your neck? Will you urge me to come on your skin, on that soft hairless spot between your thighs?

I have been hard since I sat down to write this letter, my most dear Eggsy. Just from the thought of you, the ghost of your hands, the fantasy of your body. I miss you so very much, in the most dramatic ways that can only be fueled by too much gin.

Now I will fold this letter, then fold myself in bed with a hand around my cock and all those filthy thoughts of you on my mind.

Please return to me soon, my most dear Eggsy.

Love, and lust,

Harry


End file.
